A Case of Deception
by Westron Wynde
Summary: Dr Watson returns from his honeymoon to find things have changed at Baker Street - and someone else has taken his place! As the mystery deepens, Watson begins to wonder where Holmes's loyalties really lie...
1. Chapter 1

_**A Case of Deception**_

**Chapter One**

I have mentioned elsewhere in these accounts of the cases that Mr Sherlock Holmes undertook in those years when he was at the height of his profession that he was a man of great secrecy. Nothing came less easy to his reserved nature than the sharing of a confidence, even with me, the one whom he often styled as friend and associate. That I could lay claim to this privilege, however, could not be further from the truth, for it was frequently the case that Holmes would keep more from me than I considered necessary. It was not that he would deliberately lie to me, but in his omission of certain facts lay the difference between falsehood and trust.

But then we are none of us perfect. I find on glancing through those accounts of Mr Holmes' cases that he permitted me to commit to paper that I have been less than honest with the reader regarding our relations following my marriage. I have asserted that there passed some considerable time before our re-acquaintance; in truth it was but a matter of weeks. If my hand has been forestalled in telling the circumstances of that meeting, it is as a consequence of the peculiar nature of the case, which time and the passing of the main protagonists have conspired to remove any obstacle to its revelation.

Thus it was, nearly three weeks after my wedding and subsequent return to London, that I found myself back in Baker Street in mid-afternoon under threatening skies and contemplating whether Holmes would be affable to the idea of accompanying me to an early supper at one of the favourite haunts of my idle bachelor days. I say idle, because it was a wonder to me how I ever found the time to read or spend an evening transcribing scribbled notes of events into something approaching a readable account. At such moments, part of me cannot help but yearn for those carefree days when the most I had to worry about was the arrival of the next client rather than pedestrian decisions about wallpaper for the drawing room or curtains for the surgery.

I had my old keys, which was fortunate, as Mrs Hudson was out. I let myself in and made my way upstairs, savouring the remembrance of each creaking step and chip in the banister. I was pleased to find that here at least nothing seemed to have changed in my absence. I made no attempt to conceal my approach; Holmes would have been aware of my arrival as soon as I put my key in the lock. A warmth came over me as I saw the familiar boots propped up on the arm of the sofa and I entered the room in ebullient mood.

"Well, Holmes," I began, only to stop as I rounded the couch and found that the feet belonged not to my friend, but to a slim, sandy-haired man in his late twenties.

My surprise was mirrored in his face and he almost tumbled from the chair in his hurry to sit up.

"Good heavens, you must excuse me," said he, his voice betraying the warm undertones of a Devon accent. "Mr Holmes is out. May I be of assistance?"

By this time, he was on his feet and hurriedly straightening his tie.

"And you are?" I asked.

"Mr Dainty, Cyril Dainty," said he.

I shook the hand he extended. "Dr John Watson."

A broad smile lit his face and the blue eyes twinkled. "My predecessor, of course, I should have known! Please have a seat. Not that you need any permission."

"My predecessor?" I inquired, settling in my old chair by the fire.

"Mr Holmes didn't tell you?"

"Nothing. We have not spoken since the wedding."

Mr Dainty beamed in a manner that reminded me of the naughtiest of Holmes's paid urchins. "Mrs Hudson tells me it was a splendid affair. Congratulations to both you and Mrs Watson."

"Thank you. Do I take it that you are living here?"

"Yes, indeed. I heard that Mr Holmes was seeking a new lodger to share this residence and came straight round to apply for the position."

My throat was unaccountably dry as I struggled to put my next question into words. "When?"

"About two weeks ago. Are you quite all right, Dr Watson? You've gone quite pale."

The enormity of this statement came as a blow. If Mr Dainty was to be believed, then the dust had barely settled in my wake than Holmes was already seeking my replacement.

"You see, I thought it would be good experience for me," Dainty continued after my assurance that I needed neither tea nor something stronger. "One needs exposure to different environments and different people. Mr Holmes certainly fits that bill."

"Good experience, you say. Are you a detective?"

He helped himself to a cigarette from his case and offered one to me, which I refused. "No, a jobbing journalist. My last editor said that I needed to broaden by reach. Too insular in my approach to writing, he said. 'The world is bigger than dog shows and tea parties'," he mimicked with a grin. "So when I heard of this opportunity, it sounded too good to miss. I hope you don't mind me saying, Dr Watson, I was rather hoping to emulate your example."

"Indeed?"

"I read your story, _A Study in Scarlet_, sir. Most entertaining, although I must confess I preferred the first half to the second. Forgive me," said he, a touch of colour coming to his cheeks, "I can hardly criticise anyone else when my own efforts run to but a few lines in the _Tiverton Courier_."

"Believe me, Mr Dainty, you do not offend. You would not be the first person to make that observation. One can always learn from one's mistakes. I hope my next effort will meet with greater approval."

"As do I, Doctor. Mr Holmes is tutoring me in the correct presentation of his work."

"His work?" I queried. "Do you mean to say Holmes is encouraging you to publish his cases?"

"He is," said he brightly. "I hope you do not mind, sir. Mr Holmes said that in your absence he needed someone to transcribe his cases as he found it too tedious himself."

"No, I do not mind in the least," I lied.

"I thought I'd start with my own first encounter with the great detective," Dainty elaborated. "It wasn't as memorable as yours, I'm afraid, but I thought it would make an interesting counter-point for the reader. He deduced I was an impoverished writer from the stain of the newsprint on my sleeve, the outline of the stubby pencil and notebook I carry in my pocket and my willingness to share a tenancy under less than favourable circumstances." He looked dubiously about the untidy room. "I see what he meant now. Tell me, Doctor, has he always played his violin in the dead of night?"

I caught myself smiling. "Always. And yes, it always woke me up."

"Good. Well, not good, I mean, I'm just glad to hear it isn't only for my sake. I was wondering if he had changed his mind about our arrangement."

"I'm sure not. Holmes has always been difficult to live with."

Dainty chuckled. "I can see now why you were in such a hurry to move out."

"There was no hurry," I corrected him.

He coloured. "Forgive me, Mr Holmes gave me to understand–"

"I'm sure he did." I rose to my feet. "Well, I must be going, Mr Dainty. I have other calls upon my time today. It has been…. good to meet you."

"As it has you, Doctor, very much so. I'm sorry I can't tell you when Mr Holmes will be back. He went out this morning and I haven't heard from him since. He never tells me anything."

"That, as you will come to learn, is the least of his failings."

Dainty followed me down and, after making our goodbyes, he closed the door. I stood there for a while, hearing his footsteps retreat up the stairs and into silence, unsure what to make of this turn of events. A rumble of thunder heralded the rain and the first spots speckled my face. I pulled up and my collar and started for Paddington, thoughts of supper abandoned. I had suddenly lost my appetite.

_**Dear me, Mr Holmes has got some explaining to do.**_

_**Find out what he has to say for himself in Chapter Two.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A Case of Deception**_

**Chapter Two**

Three days passed before I received word from Holmes. I had expected to hear from him sooner, and the tardiness of his missive only served to reinforce my misgivings that he regarded our association at an end.

That it took him three days to find time for me only gave fuel to my festering grievance.

Initially, I did not speak of the incident to Mary. I fear, however, that gentle soul sensed all was not well and interpreted my broodings as a failing on her part. As my apparent disinterest in our domestic arrangements increased, so the atmosphere in our once happy home soured until even the servants did not linger in my presence. Holmes's telegraph did not improve matters, coinciding as it did with the arrival of the decorator and his hapless apprentice, who set a seal on the day by knocking over a pot of paint that spread like a cream ocean across the newly-laid parquet floor.

I left my household mopping and scrubbing at the stained wood, and took a cab to Cheapside. After a tortuous journey involving an over-turned milk wagon, repair works at High Holborn and a woman fallen in a dead faint in the middle of the road, I finally arrived at the corner of Milk Street. Holmes had instructed me to meet him there and although admittedly I was late, it appeared he had not waited. I was in no hurry to leave and was generous enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. I waited, and the busy throng passed by – clerks ferrying documents to the various stock-broking agencies, boys clutching parcels intended for the General Post Office and ladies browsing the shop windows with discerning and critical eyes.

I stood there for a good ten minutes and finally without sign of Holmes had made up my mind to return home. Several cabs passed by, ignoring my hail, their sights set on richer pickings around the Bank of England. I succeeded only in catching the eye of a ragged fiddler in a loud check suit and a battered top hat, who had been playing on the opposite corner. Seeing me, he flashed a yellow smile and broke into an energetic jig.

If he was hoping for recompense for this poor effort, he was mistaken, for I was little in the mood for charity. Seeing that his case was fast losing ground, he advanced, still playing, adding a few lively steps of his own.

"Something for me trouble, sir, God bless you for a gentleman, sir," he crooned, cracks appearing amidst the grime of his face as his wrinkles deepened into a grin. "Something for a poor man, sir, God bless you, sir."

We were attracting considerable attention. It took the sharp look of a passing lady who threw a coin into the man's upturned hat pricked my conscience. My own offering did not meet with the man's approval.

"Threepence?" the foul fellow uttered. "For me life's experience? Forty years a-playing the fiddle man and boy, and all it's-a worth to the likes of you is threepence?"

"Why, you ungrateful devil," I countered. "Be gone, or I'll have you arrested."

I was disconcerted when the fiddler suddenly guffawed with laughter and laid a hand on my shoulder.

"Calm yourself, Watson," said a familiar voice. "It is only my little jest."

I stared at the face and slowly Holmes's features began to emerge from beneath the congested dirt and ginger whiskers.

"There is a decent little restaurant on the corner of King Street. Give me five minutes to improve my appearance and I shall meet you there."

He was a good as his word and reappeared at the table clean, groomed and jovial. His expression fell somewhat when he surveyed the fare I had ordered.

"I fear I was over-generous in my praise of this establishment," said he with distaste.

"Holmes, you owe me an explanation," I countered.

"As I thought," he said, slightly wincing as he replaced his tea cup. "The leaves are not fresh. The cakes, you will observe, were not made on the premises; the remnant of paper with the baker's initials still adheres to the side of this _petit four_. The cucumber in these sandwiches is limp, possibly a day or two old, and the bread is not of the first quality. They have attempted to overcome these limitations by removing the crusts, which has served only to highlight the staleness of the bread–"

"Hang the bread crusts!" I interrupted him. An elderly lady with a pug-faced dog on her lap looked across at us in alarm. I moderated my tone. "I'm talking about your new lodger."

Holmes sat back in his chair and smiled. "Ah, yes, Mr Dainty. It has proved to be an admiral arrangement. Mrs Hudson is quite taken with him. Like the majority of her sex, she is easily swayed by petty delights. He presented her with a posy when he moved in and I fear she has remained his most devoted admirer ever since."

"Who is he?"

"His ancestors had a dairy farm in South Devon. It was not a life he relished and so gave up the privilege of herding cattle to pursue his bent as a journalist in the capital."

"How very touching. What I meant was, what's he doing at Baker Street?"

"He has taken your old room."

"I am aware of that," I said, sighing. "Why? You don't need someone to share the rent now."

"No, but I have come to appreciate the advantage of having a scribe close at hand. Mr Dainty says I should acquaint the public with my particular skills. You know the sort of thing, a few selected appearances, the odd quote in the press. We are attending the opening night of a drama tomorrow. I suppose I shall be expected to say a few words. How tiresome." He sighed. "Still, I must be obliging. Dainty believes it will do my prospects no harm at all. Perhaps he is right. You know how I have always chafed at the lack of recognition."

"I'm sure Lestrade will be delighted by your change in attitude."

"Yes, indeed. Considering how few ripples your effort created in his little world, I doubt anything Mr Dainty can do will stir him."

This cheered me a little, for it sounded like the Holmes of old.

"On the other hand, he has an advantage that you lacked: a sound training in the discipline of writing. He tells me there is an art to crafting a readable column, something to do with pyramids, I understand. The most important information first to grab the attention, then the lesser to follow."

"It may sell newspapers, but I hesitate as to whether you will approve."

"I shall give him the benefit of the doubt, the same I gave to you. Youth must have its fling, after all."

"At your expense?"

"I consider myself most fortunate. A guest at your wedding breakfast mentioned that I should make use of your empty room. The very next day Mr Dainty applied. How is Mrs Watson, by the way?"

"Well, thank you. Kind of you to remember."

He ignored my sarcasm. "I am unlikely to forget, given the cause and effect."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means we would not be having this conversation had the one event not led to the other." He regarded me coolly. "Watson, am I correct in deducing that your irritability is due to your domestic mishap or is it something else? I could not help but notice the splash of paint upon your instep. I trust you will deduct the damages from his bill."

I did not rise to this attempt at distraction. "Holmes, why didn't you tell me about Dainty?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I do not like surprises. Because…" I hesitated. "Because I thought you _would_ have told me."

Holmes drew out a cigarette and lit it. "I must admit," said he, "that the situation threw me onto the horns of a dilemma. I discussed the problem with Mycroft and he said that I should forewarn you."

"Very wise of him."

"I argued," Holmes continued, "that it would not be of the slightest interest to you, since you would be too busy with your own affairs to concern yourself with mine. Furthermore, I told him that only a man who was unhappy with his own lot would take umbrage at an old acquaintance making separate arrangements without consulting him first." His eyes came to rest on mine. "You are happy, aren't you, Watson?"

I nodded.

"Dear me, the first flush of nuptial bliss seems to have faded soon."

"Not at all," I said stoutly. "Mary and I are very happy."

"Only very?"

"_Delightfully_ happy."

"Better."

"_Supremely_ happy."

"Then what is your complaint?"

As usual, he had reasoned it so perfectly that any response on my part would have appeared churlish.

"Your problem appears to be that, having arranged your own life to your satisfaction, you now wish to do so with mine." His voice had sharpened to that critical tone he reserved for the more reprehensible clients of his clients. "When you removed yourself from Baker Street–"

"Holmes, I married, I did not join the Foreign Legion! I am but a few streets away."

"When you married, you gave up the right to have any say in those arrangements. I do not say this unkindly, but you have chosen your path. Now have the good grace to allow me to continue with mine."

"That is unworthy of you, Holmes."

"No, Watson, the fault lies with you. You would have me preserved in aspic so that you might have a bolt-hole to which to retreat when the mood takes your fancy. Which reminds me, I gave my spare set of keys to Mr Dainty, so that yours are now the spare."

He held out his hand.

"Did Mrs Hudson ask you to do this?"

"She implied as much when I said I was meeting you this afternoon."

I gave him the keys and rose to my feet. "I won't forget this, Holmes."

I was several steps away from the table when he called to me. I turned back, glad that we were not about to part on bad terms.

"What about this?" said he, holding up the bill for our meagre meal.

Speechless with anger, I threw the money on the table and left, letting the door bang behind me hard enough to rattle the glass.

I did not understand this change in the man. I knew his mood and caprices better than most and was used to the strangest of behaviour, but this was something different. Whatever it was, I deserved better treatment after the years of our association. At the very least, an apology was required. Until then, I resolved not to have any further contact with him.

_**Is that a resolution Dr Watson can keep?**_

_**Find out in Chapter Three**_


End file.
